Circling the Drain
by AbaddonNox
Summary: Wrapped in a dingy blanket, and looking deathly pale, Kimblee appeared anything but threatening. But to think him harmless, that could prove fatal... mangaverse, the aftermath of Kimblee's battle with Scar.


Disclaimer: I do not own any aspect of Fullmetal Alchemist, that honor belongs to the great Hiromu Arakawa. Furthermore, the beliefs, events, etc. depicted in this work do not in any way represent the opinions, actions, etc. of the writer. Reader discretion is thusly advised.  
Spoilers: To be safe, all of the manga up through chapter 79.  
A/N: This is a mangaverse story that takes place between where we leave Kimblee in chapter 65, but before we see him again in chapter 67.

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**Circling the Drain  
**

Is he alive?" someone bellowed curtly.

It took Kimblee a few stretched seconds to realize the person wasn't truly shouting. Yet the words were still bouncing around in his skull, gaining nauseating momentum.

A more soothing voice answered, "last time I checked." The emotions it conjured were familiar, and oddly warm. The alchemist's nimble mind floundered, trying to find the face it matched amongst a dizzying array of stored visages.

"And when was that?" the harsh tone asked, sending teeth gritting and bile bobbing something more solid up into his throat.

"Probably fifteen minutes ago ..." There it was again – warm, simple, useful – just like what currently staved chill from his injured body. Recall sparked, and Kimblee remembered a hulking man timidly reaching out to cover him with a dingy blanket, the cloth reeking heavily of coal. Train ... yes, he was on a train ...

A new voice chimed in, this one screeching like metal against bone. "Should I notify the hospital, sir?"

"Not for a corpse," the brutal tone replied.

Cold fingers invaded Kimblee's personal space, clumsily probing his throat for a pulse. Hunched against a wall, and nestled in a dirty blanket which made his paled skin look even paler, Zolf J. Kimblee probably appeared anything but threatening. But to think him harmless, that could prove fatal.

Instantly, the officer felt himself yanked forward. Off balance, he fell into a waiting hand, palm squarely making contact with his chest. Behind a wispy curtain of tangled hair, amber eyes stared angrily. The officer still had one arm free. But something in that gaze froze his blood, and told him moving wasn't such a good idea.

"Where am I?" Kimblee asked, voice dry.

"Briggs," one of the engineers blurted out. "End of the line."

The battle with Scar, the humiliating retreat ... it all came pouring back. The engineers had been stubborn, but did eventually invite him into the relative comfort of the locomotive, and press on. It took Kimblee delicately manipulating explosive alchemy to remove the extraneous pipe protruding from his gut, as well as cauterize around the remaining metal, to convince them he meant business. The latter was excruciating and, Kimblee knew, liable to complicate the job of getting said injury patched up properly. However, he accepted it as his due. The Isbalans had their pound of flesh now. Was that all the world saw fit to give them as compensation for his part in the extermination campaign? If so, the equivalency was laughable.

Foggy eyes sharpened, reading the young officer and his uniform. Time to work, dying would have to wait. "Ah, Lieutenant," Kimblee said, releasing his hand, and politely ignoring the resultant stumble. "As you can see, I'm in need of some assistance." He retracted the arm, fingers smoothing back dark hair which had mused itself out of his ponytail. "I possess all the proper military clearances. But if you require more than my word, I'm afraid it will have to wait." Kimblee sunk back against the wall. "Are you a medic, by any chance?"

"No, sir," the lieutenant stammered. "But there's a hospital nearby." Kimblee smirked. He found it funny how easily military dogs assumed he still held rank. At times, that proved useful. But Kimblee had no desire to make it fact again. His current relationship with the powers that be possessed all the perks being a state alchemist ever afforded him, and none of the annoying limitations.

"Good, take me there," he said. "Death and I have been on speaking terms for roughly an hour now. And frankly, I've grown weary of the conversation."

Once at the hospital, Kimblee released the lieutenant, and his screechy underling, with directions to contact their superiors immediately. However, those treating the alchemist worried he might be too far gone – cooperative to the point of apathy, and oddly gracious in a situation that hardly warranted it. Kimblee knew the odds, and had sunk back into himself to let the medical staff work. Everyone has their place and talents. As long as no one interfered with his job, he would gladly let them perform theirs. Besides, the world had seen fit to let him cheat death countless times before. There was the war, and prison when a firing squad truly matched the charges. Then, while awaiting capital punishment, a researcher approached him, offering a stay of execution if he agreed to be a "human sacrifice". Kimblee had politely told the little man to go to hell. Ironically, what remained of that scientist's soul was probably locked in one of the two philosopher's stones Kimblee carried around as a free man. At the moment, any mustered energy was spent safeguarding said stones, managing the nausea so they remained conveniently tucked away in his undamaged stomach.

"Sir?" Amber eyes opened, and swiveled into the voice. "We need to put you under anesthesia now. Please start counting dow–" A tattooed hand shot up before the drug could be administered, locking solidly onto the physician's arm.

"The surgeon." It was more of a question, but passed Kimblee's lips with the force of a strong statement.

The man stuttered. "Scrubbing in, he's ..."

"I want to speak with him," Kimblee said, giving the doctor a hard look. "Now."

He relaxed his grip when the physician passed along the request that really wasn't a request, though didn't close his eyes. A dying man had every right to take the measure of those possibly facilitating his demise, but doctors could be notoriously sneaky with what they saw as a troublesome patient. Regardless, Kimblee couldn't help but respect their resolve.

"Sir!" An approaching voice responded after some hushed commotion. "This is most unusual ..."

Kimblee recognized a commanding presence when he felt one. While staring into the surgeon's masked face, a smile crept onto his own. Yes, this one would do nicely. "It's just 'Kimblee', doctor. I'm not in the military anymore."

"_Zolf _Kimblee?" The physician's eyes widened in shock, before hardening disdainfully.

The alchemist raised an eyebrow. "You've heard of me?"

"I was stationed in Ishbal during the war," the man responded coldly.

"Should I be concerned, then?" Perhaps equivalent exchange hadn't played itself out quite yet. Kimblee barely suppressed an amused grin.

"How dare!" the grizzled physician yelled. "Young man, everyone who comes through those doors and onto this table is treated the same! And I resent an–" Kimblee cut him off with a chuckle.

"I like you, doctor," he said. "So, let me advise you that if something _unfortunate_ should happen to me, my body might accidentally discharge a few latent transmutations." The surgeon blanched. Fact or fiction, it hardly mattered to Kimblee. If they wished him asleep on the job, those awake needed to have death whispering in their ears. It seemed only fair. "Said unpleasantness aside," Kimblee continued, "my life is in your hands. Do at least try to enjo–" He stopped short, eyes wide.

Someone yelled "doctor!", and scurrying ensued. Kimblee didn't buck their ministrations, or even the anesthesia, which was quickly pushed into his veins once matters stabilized.

"Yes, _doctor_," he whispered thickly as the drugs pulled him under, licking his lips with absent thirst. "Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick ..."

Everyone within earshot was thankful when Kimblee's apparent ramblings finally digressed into silence. But the anonymous countdown continued on in their heads, just as the alchemist had intended it to.

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A/N: Thank you for getting through all the above. This is my first work for FMA, and kinda short because it wanted out of my brain, and rough since I didn't want to inflict it on anyone for betaing purposes. Being the officious person I am, "Circling the Drain", or "CTD", is medical jargon for when a patient's health takes a drastic/progressive turn for the worse ... like in the latter stages of shock. At first, I intended this piece to mirror the classic stages of hypovolemic shock. That never materialized, but the title stuck around anyway. If you have a minute, please leave me your thoughts/comments. Any and all feedback is love :)


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